


2024

by curvasud



Series: 2024 [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curvasud/pseuds/curvasud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He would list off great midfielders for me if I had doubt. He always mentions you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	2024

The boy is not older than twenty but there is an air of sophistication about him that manages to show through the humble clothes he wears—humble, Ricardo suspects, by comparison with his normal attires, for even the simple jeans and t-shirt are easily designers’ (Armani, if Ricardo has to guess). His dark blonde hair is winsomely tousled and his stance is delicately poised, both aspects helping Ricardo to ascertain this much about his visit in a moment’s glance: it is not going to be a normal summer day.

“Hello,” the boy greets him in Portuguese.

“Hello,” Ricardo replies from behind the mesh of his screen door. “How may I help you?”

The boy fluidly pulls something from the front pocket of his jeans and holds it up for Ricardo to see: a small pocket Bible. His eyes shine as he speaks again, surprising Ricardo by switching to another familiar language. “They tell me that I’ll have the best luck here,” he says in impeccable Italian. “You see, I am looking for knowledge. I believe I am on the right path,”—a slight shake of the book in his hand—“but I need help. Yours, please.”

Ricardo is startled by the rather bold request, but he is pleased at the same time. It is rare to see a young man with such interest—perhaps even _faith_ and Ricardo is now offered a chance to help with that—nowadays. He feels no compel to refuse and shuffles back a step to pull the door open. “Come on in.”

The boy nods his gratitude and gracefully walks through the threshold. His light brown eyes take in the home as Ricardo directs him to the sitting room and he _must_ be wondering about the place’s modesty, Ricardo thinks; but when the boy sits down on the couch in silence, Ricardo decides that he is too polite to ask about it anyway.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Ricardo asks and the boy shakes his head no—“Thank you, though,”—but he brings in two glasses of water just in case and sets them on the coffee table, before folding his long limbs into an armchair. He watches as the boy picks up one of the glasses and takes a courtesy sip.

“You’re not from around here.” It isn’t a question, but the boy answers nonetheless.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not Italian.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you English?” Ricardo doubts it, though; he just can’t quite place this boy’s accent.

“No, I’m not.” This time he laughs and Ricardo smiles too.

“One last, then,” he says, deciding not to pry too much, “what is your name?” For the first time, however, the boy doesn’t seem to have an immediate answer, so Ricardo quickly adds, “Or what should I call you by?”

The boy shrugs, his fingers playing with the spine of the Bible. He looks at Ricardo carefully for a moment, as if trying to find something in his face that’s beyond what’s _on_ it, and casually lowers his eyes again. “How about ‘son’, if and when you must? It seems appropriate.”

“Alright,” Ricardo agrees with a smile. “I do have a son just a few years younger than you, I think, so this works out just fine.”

“Where is he?” The boy has set the Bible on the cushion beside him.

“With his mother,” Ricardo says fondly. “They’ve taken an early vacation.”

“And you?”

In spite of the boy’s own reservation about certain things, Ricardo finds that he holds none of it himself.

“I like the quiet nowadays,” he admits. “In fact, I’m much more comfortable _here_ than at home.”

The boy nods. “I was a little astonished when they told me that you’ve already arrived at your summer house.” He pauses for a second and then grins. “And I was even more astonished that it actually is a _house_.”

Ricardo grins too. “No mansions or palaces or villas around here,” he says happily. “Astonished, you say...are you disappointed?”

“No.”

Ricardo believes him. “What brings you to Brasil then?”

The boy’s eyes are shining again. “Knowledge,” he says, but the Bible lies forgotten at his side.

“Go on.”

“You aren’t much older than forty,” the boy says thoughtfully, as if he already has his part of the impending conversation rehearsed, “just barely. Why aren’t you still playing? I bet with your talents, you’ve always been very much capable.”

Ricardo feels his own lashes sweep gently against the skin under his eyes as they close. Is this it then? Is this the knowledge the boy wishes to seek? Has the most delightful conversation he has started in months be with nobody more than a clever journalist?

Well, clever he is. Ricardo has to give him credit for that, if nothing else—if not his attention, his charisma, his manners, and those are pretty big ‘ifs’ to forsake. If he has traveled all the way to this little place in Brasil for this knowledge, then perhaps he deserves it.

Before he can answer, however, the boy has already started again. “Aren’t you Brasilians all about loving— _living_ —the beautiful game? What was that old phrase of yours...‘ _joga bonita_ ’?”

Ricardo’s eyes flutter open but he feels oddly calm. He smiles. “Surely you have better questions for me? You are rather unconventional,” he adds, finally noticing the lack of notes or even a recorder, “but I’m afraid I can’t see how I would give you any ‘knowledge’ interesting or new. Of retirement, we all must accept it eventually. Your assignment—”

“Assignment?” The boy looks confounded.

“It’s alright, son,” Ricardo says gently, “I’ll be more than happy to give you an interview. But your questions—”

“I’m not a journalist,” the boy interrupts again (so manners _may_ have been a stretch).

“No?”

“No,” he confirms. “I apologize for giving you such an impression and, I suppose, for being too forward. Perhaps I should have practiced this better...” The boy seems to be musing to himself now.

“No, no,” Ricardo says, releasing a long breath. “I would have answered you regardless of your intention. It’s just...pardon me, but the answer to your question seems _obvious_. You must know the average age of retirement for footballers.”

“I didn’t ask about footballers,” the boy corrects him politely, “I asked about you.”

“I don’t understand.”

He seems to have slowed to think. “You’re...different.” Ricardo looks at him deliberately then and he grins. “In a good way! You’re...great.”

Now Ricardo just shakes his head though he can’t help a smile from his face either. “Even Pelé retired at thirty-seven...Zidane at thirty-four. I could go on. It was a very reasonable time for me.”

“No.”

Ricardo laughs. “I’m different, you say...and you’re crazy.”

“My father always says you are too humble.” He seems impatient.

“Your father?”

“A fan,” the boy says simply.

Ricardo nods. After several seconds of silence has passed, he sighs and says, “This is very...flattering, son. But what is your purpose? Talking me out of retirement is ludicrous; I trust even you know that.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to do that. I just want to know.”

“Know? Know what?”

“I want to know...what football has been for you. What it is _to_ you too, perhaps.”

Ricardo thinks that they have gone through the loops since the boy’s first question—it seems so far away now—but perhaps this is what the boy means by knowledge. What ‘this’ is Ricardo isn’t exactly sure himself...but it has never been wrong to give an honest answer.

But, before that—

“Do you play?”

“A little,” the boy says, grinning. “Actually, I noticed the ball in the corner there. I was thinking, you know, if you’re interested, we can have a kick-about later.”

“That’s fine,” Ricardo promises, inexplicably inclined towards this boy without realizing it. “There’s a ground a little down from here that we can visit later. It’s no _San Siro_ , but it should suffice.”

The boy nods. “Go on, then.”

Ricardo closes his eyes briefly again—if he shuts out all of his senses except his nose to breathe, all of his thoughts except those to imagine...he can almost taste with his mind’s eye and invisible tongue the grass sticking to his boots, between his fingers, in _his_ hair...a dirty blonde not too unlike the boy’s sitting across from him. He opens his eyes.

“Freedom,” he begins delicately, “football means freedom to me. It always has and I think it always will. When I was little...there was nothing like having a ball at my feet—I think even now too, to be honest. I like to run with it, pick it up and keep going...I was never graceful like the...the _joga bonita_ , you say...they say. Pleasing to watch to a point because I suppose I had pace on my side. But there was an...an off-ness to me, I guess you could say, something that if you, as my opponent, my _defender_ , ironically, that if you understood...could put me out very effectively. It happened all the time throughout my career; I think if you noticed, you wouldn’t say ‘great’ so liberally.

“It was...frustrating, but it comes and it goes. What remains is the joy I experience on the pitch—every single time. With the ball at my feet, the grass beneath it...that’s freedom. That’s football and not so much the rest of the things that come along with it, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

Ricardo pauses. It really is too easy to talk to this boy. “I suppose I’m saying that freedom is on the pitch. I shouldn’t have said ‘football’ is freedom because football isn’t just twenty-three men on the grass and a ball anymore. It’s a whole world. It’s business, it’s media, it’s vanity, it’s...devastating once your ninety minutes are up. On the pitch, you have your rules to abide by, but those are simple. You’ve got your rules and you’ve got your one judge, who, incidentally, do not judge you for who you are but only by those rules. Off the pitch...the rules are much more complicated and everybody judges.”

“Go on.”

Ricardo closes his eyes again, but this time he doesn’t open them when he speaks. “I was happy on the pitch. On the pitch, I had a ball, I had the grass. I had a friend— _friends_. And...and nobody would care when we hug or laugh or _touch_. It was simple because there were no rules against it. We could _kiss_ even and it still wouldn’t be against the rules and the judge wouldn’t judge because it was as simple as a man and a man and _freedom_.” He slowly lifts his lashes. “Can you imagine that _off_ the pitch, son?”

The boy’s answer surprises him. “Yes, I can, actually.” Ricardo presses his lips together and the boy takes this as a sign to elaborate. “I think I understand what you’re saying. The...the pretense. My father would agree with you. The thing is, I wouldn’t mind that... _honesty_ on the pitch to be present off it too though.”

Ricardo smiles gently. “I believe you. But the football world doesn’t agree. It didn’t...and it wouldn’t. Nothing has changed.”

“What about here then?” the boy challenges.

“What?”

“Can we be honest here?”

Ricardo laughs and teases, “You don’t mean... _honest_...”

He flushes and waves the older man off, looking purposely annoyed. “Please, you’re old enough to be my father! You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Ricardo agrees. “Honest.”

The boy suddenly looks grim. He reaches out for that Bible and flicks through it ponderously. “I know your religion’s extremely important to you,” he starts slowly, “so...how do you deal with... _it_?”

Ricardo sighs. Honest answers aren’t wrong answers but it doesn’t mean they’re easy to give either. “I’ve come to accept it,” he says after some time. “Accept myself. It’s all I can do.”

“Explain, please.”

“The rules for self-conduction are sort of like those on the pitch—they’re not finite, but they are simple and there is only one judge: God. Those rules? Be kind to others, be true to yourself, and so on and so forth. There are grey areas and not everyone or everything needs to be labeled. It sounds like I’m throwing you a bunch of clichés, I know,” Ricardo adds with a grin when he sees the pained look on the boy’s face, “and I’ve probably gone around in circles and contradicted myself by them too. But when you get to be my age, it happens and you’ll find that many of these things have truth—which, I guess, is how they became clichés in the first place.”

The boy nods.

“Any more questions? Have I quenched your thirst for knowledge with my contradictions and clichés?—complications! you see what I mean? How I wish it were as easy as a ball and my feet!”

“Just a few more and then we can get to that last part.”

“Go on.”

“Did you love him?”

Ricardo visibly tenses. “Who?” He racks his brain for a possible slip-up during his speeches but can’t remember anything significant.

“Your friend.”

“Oh.” _That_. When was that?

“Be honest.”

“Well...yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I do.”

“Do?” The boy almost frowns.

“ _Do_.”

“Does he know?”

Ricardo looks away from the boy’s face and stares at the Bible in his youthful hands instead. “I think, on some level, yes, he does.”

The boy says nothing and instead slips the book back into his pocket. He stands up, stretches lazily and then finds his way to that ball nestling in the corner of the room. He chips it easily for Ricardo to catch.

“So how about that ground now?”

“Sure.”

The boy offers Ricardo a hand to help him up from the armchair. It isn’t necessary, but Ricardo accepts the warm gesture with a smile anyway. They head out, the boy dribbling the ball easily while Ricardo lags a little slower behind.

“What position do you play?”

“Midfielder. Attacking—sort of like you.”

“Ah.”

“My father loves it—he couldn’t have been prouder. I hadn’t done a single thing and he just beamed when we would have a kick-about or something and I was _there_ naturally. I didn’t understand at first, I wanted to be just like him—he used to play too, you see, a striker. But it was so easy, giving him the support he needed— _needs_ , actually, and in more than one sense...it’s almost ironic—and he would list off great midfielders for me if I had doubt. He always mentions you.”

They round a corner and walk into an empty lot, grassy enough but unkempt as well—muddy and wild. For a second, Ricardo regards the boy’s posh appearance and wonders how they would play; the boy, however, has already sunk his expensive trainers into a relatively thick patch of grass and skipped off.

“Do I know him?” Ricardo calls, stretching on the side.

“He believes in your philosophy too,” the boy answers vaguely in response, “in the freedom on the pitch and the restraints off it.”

“Now _he_ sounds like a great footballer.”

“He is. He is a great man too.”

“I believe you.”

 

 

Hours later, both find themselves positively exhausted (and dirty) as they stand on the sidewalk adjacent to the lot; Ricardo is nearly doubled over. The boy grins good-naturedly—but of course he would; the little runt had shown Ricardo up and he had promised that it wasn’t because of the effects of the latter’s age—and pats the older man gently on his shoulder.

“It was really great to meet you, Ricky,” he says sincerely.

“Oh, yes, make me feel young again _now_ when I’m near collapse.” Ricardo grins and they share a laugh.

“I mean it,” the boy persists. “I knew I had to do this...but you’ve shown me more than I had imagined.”

“You’re a good kid, son,” Ricardo says, straightening up to kiss the boy’s cheek. “I’m glad to have met you too. Please say hello to your father for me.”

The boy smiles. “I promise. Actually—” He picks the mud-worn ball up and wipes it clean as best as he can with his shirt. He holds it out to Ricardo, who takes it, puzzled, before pulling out a thick pen from one of his other pockets. “Will you sign this for him?”

Ricardo complies. When he is finished, the boy has pulled out another item: his Bible.

“And I want you to have this in exchange.”

Ricardo shakes his head and nudges it back gently. “I have a few very good copies,” he insists, “you keep this. I think it’ll help you.”

But he is adamant. “You have to keep it,” he says firmly. “In fact, it’s already yours.”

With that, the boy—still anonymous, somehow—turns and walks back for his car, humming a tune. Ricardo runs his finger across the leather binding of the pocket Bible and, in an instant's epiphany, recognizes that it _is_ his—or that it was once. He feels his hands convulsing as he turns the cover.

 _Sheva, God is faithful._

Ricardo only looks up when a distant car’s engine roars. His heart swells.

“Jordan! Jordan!”

But the boy has disappeared as neatly as he arrived.


End file.
